The Lady Series, Two Books for the Price of One

by Denise Domning

  For a long moment, the queen eyed the daughter of her lady-in-waiting. No hint of kindness touched her dark eyes nor did any smile bend her thin lips. Turning, Elizabeth retreated to a gilded chair set beneath a crimson awning. Her ladies followed in a pretty multicolored cloud of silk and satin.

  It took Belle a moment to realize this was her sign to approach. Heart hammering, senses spinning anew, she followed on trembling legs, dropping to her knees while still several yards from the queen’s throne. Bowing her head, she started to fold her hands only to stare in horror at her naked fingers. She’d forgotten her gloves in Sir William’s chambers! No one came into the queen’s presence bare-handed.

  Hiding her hands in the folds of her skirt, she opened her mouth to offer the clever speech she'd contrived for this moment. As had happened so often in her life, her clumsy tongue had forgotten all her brain had offered. All she could think to say was, “Majesty, you called for me and I have come.”

  “So you have,” Elizabeth snapped, “albeit greatly late. You were commanded into our presence before July's end. If We are not mistaken this is the fourth day of August.”

  Belle's shoulders hunched against the sarcastic blow. “I beg pardon Your Grace. My daughter grew ill upon the journey,” she said, thinking the tale of a sick child had a better chance of softening her female monarch’s anger than any mention of her own illness. Nor was it a lie. Lucy had suffered the same fever alongside her mother. “I sent word to your secretary that we would tarry until she recovered.”

  “You put a child before your duty to your prince?” Outrage rang in the queen’s voice. “It was you We commanded into our presence, not your daughter. You should have left her behind.”

  Belle shifted uneasily on her knees and set herself to repairing the damage as best she could. “Majesty, on the very day I received Your Grace's command to come to court, my stepson demanded that I and my daughter vacate my late husband’s home. With no time to make my jointure property habitable I could but bring her with me.” Belle wasn't about to tell her monarch she'd rather die than be parted from Lucy.

  All this explanation won from Elizabeth was a harsh sound. “Lady Montmercy did not warn you We intended to call you into our presence?”

  The words struck Belle like a slap. Not only had her lady mother known of the queen’s interest in her, she'd abandoned her daughter to it without warning. That brief bubble of pained surprise burst into dull acceptance. Rejection and scorn was all her dam had ever shown her. Why should she expect anything else at this late date?

  “Madame,” she said, “I've had no communication from my lady mother since my marriage to Sir William Purfoy ten years ago. When I arrived at Richmond this morn I asked after her of Your Grace's secretary only to be told she is not presently in residence.”

  “Then Cecil was right,” the queen replied, the steel easing from her voice. “You are as much an innocent as the maid your lady mother meant to abuse.”

  Startled, Belle peered up at her monarch. “Madame?”

  Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair, her pearls rattling softly as the thick strands slid against her doublet's breast. Her perfume, a musky scent, reached out to envelop Belle in a choking cloud. “Your lady mother plotted the rape of one of our maids-of-honor,” she said almost gently. “God be praised the plot was exposed before harm was done. Lady Montmercy is presently residing in the Tower as We ponder her punishment.”

  Terror roared through Belle, the emotion so intense stars burst to life before her eyes. Here was why her half-brother had so abruptly left England. He was running from royal wrath. Oh dear Lord, but the queen meant to wreak her vengeance on all of Lady Montmercy’s line for her mother’s sin.

  “As part of her plot,” Elizabeth continued, “Lady Montmercy promised your hand in marriage to Squire Nicholas Hollier.”

  Astonishment wiped out Belle’s fear. “She did what?!” As a widow of nine and twenty, she was well past the age when a parent might arrange a marriage for her child.

  Behind Belle whispers hissed among the watching courtiers. The queen lifted a hand to demand quiet, but someone missed the sign. Amplified by a trick of the surrounding walls, a low-voiced comment rang out clearly.

  “I hear the squire’s a monster, so disfigured he'll not leave his home.”

  Belle wrenched around on her knees to stare in the direction of that voice. Her mother had promised her to a monster? The truth lay in the malicious smiles that touched some of the faces around her. Indeed she had.

  Forgetting herself, Belle looked directly at her queen. Elizabeth watched her expectantly. What in the world was she supposed to say? She settled on a dodge.

  “Madame, I cannot imagine why my lady mother might promise me to the squire. She knows I am too newly widowed to consider remarriage.”

  Elizabeth’s faint fair brows flattened over her dark eyes. Disapproval nigh on pulsed from her. Belle's trembling returned full force. Refusal had been the wrong choice. So the price Belle would pay for the sin of being related to a woman England's queen now despised was forced marriage. She turned her attention back to her knees.

  “It’s a fitting match in rank, age and income,” the queen said, her voice rising. “Despite the squire's infirmities We are informed that he is yet capable of siring children. Moreover, our wedding gift to you is the restoration of the squire’s title as Lord Graceton, which has been in abeyance since his father’s time. Bear him a child and it will be an advance for both you and your line.”

  Raised as a mouse in a household of schemers and plotters, Belle easily deciphered the intent woven into these bits of information. There was more at stake here than revenge or even the simple union of man and woman. The queen was playing some greater game, one in which she had need of a pawn, someone incapable of refusing the squire no matter how monstrous or disfigured he might be. Who better for this purpose than the daughter of an imprisoned woman, one over whose head hung the possibility of joining her dam in that horrid confinement?

  It was for Lucy's sake, to keep her precious child out of that awful prison, that Belle gave her queen the response she wanted. “If it pleases Your Majesty I will wed the squire. Your Grace is generous indeed to arrange a union on my behalf. You spend more care on this humble subject than she deserves.” How hard it was to spew these lies and sound truly grateful.

  “Well said,” Elizabeth replied with a pleased clap of her hands. “The moment We saw you We knew you were a reasonable woman unlike your lady mother.”

  Belle caught back a bitter laugh. Who wasn't reasonable with a noose around the neck?

  Whispers rose from the watching courtiers as they recognized their queen's triumph and lost interest in the proceedings. Conversations hissed back to life. The queen’s women drifted away from their royal mistress into the garden. The musicians took this as their cue to once more tease a sweet and gentle tune from their instruments.

  Praying only that her ordeal might now be over, Belle waited for her dismissal, her spine feeling like jelly after this royal trampling. But Elizabeth wasn't yet finished.

  “By and by,” the queen said, happy confidence filling her every syllable, “word of your stepson’s treachery has reached us. As Master of the Court of the Wards, our secretary will see to it an inheritance is secured for your daughter.”

  Astonishment struck Belle a second time, strong enough to make her sit back on her heels and gape at her beaming monarch. Her husband had been barely cold before his son, long married with a large family of his own to support, had claimed the income intended for Lucy’s dowry. Nor did Belle's jointure, the wee bit of her husband's property meant to support her in her widowhood, offer enough income to provide for Lucy’s marriage. But how did the queen know?

  Belle's stomach took a sour turn. Elizabeth knew because she'd made it her business to know and now that she had what she wanted, she could afford to be generous. “I am honored that you should concern yourself on my daughter's behalf, Madame. You are indeed a
most caring prince.”

  The pleasure on Elizabeth's face deepened. Shifting in her chair, she beckoned to someone behind Belle. The usher stepped forward and dropped onto one knee, his head bowed before his queen. “Madame?”

  “Make certain Lady Purfoy's accommodations in the palace are appropriate to her status as the future Lady Graceton,” Elizabeth commanded, not waiting for a response from the man before her gaze returned to Belle.

  “Your betrothal is set for the morrow. Master Wyatt, Squire Hollier's steward will stand as his master's proxy. This We have commanded so you might travel to Graceton Castle in his company without fear for your repute. Had you arrived in a more timely fashion We would have witnessed the deed ourselves.”

  The queen’s pause was pregnant with the reminder of how near Belle had come to owning her monarch's enmity instead of her favor. “We and all our court leave for our summer progress upon the morrow’s dawn. Therefore We've named Sir Edward Mallory to serve as our witness for both betrothal and wedding.”

  The lift of Elizabeth’s hand indicated a tall young man, golden-haired and handsome to the point of prettiness, who stood a few yards distant. The golden chain of knighthood was displayed proudly across the breast of his yellow doublet.

  Here, Elizabeth paused again, this time to eye Belle's black garments and her single pin. “Four months is twice the time most widows mourn,” she said. “See to it you're dressed more appropriately for the morrow's ceremony.”

  “Aye, Madame,” Belle replied meekly enough, then once more awaited the queen’s dismissal.

  A quiet moment passed, then another. Still Elizabeth said nothing. Belle raised her head. The queen’s gaze was aimed at the garden’s far wall. Her expression might have been carved from stone. Her eyes had darkened to a stormy black.

  Startled, Belle shifted to see who might win such a glare from England’s monarch. All she could see in that direction was a covered two-storey wooden walkway, complete with fine windows, that ran the length of the east and south walls. The strange construct was no doubt meant to offer gentle strollers a place to walk despite the weather.

  There was a shift in the shadows revealing a short man. Beneath his fringe of dark hair crossing his broad brow, his eyes were caught in lines of worry. His hat was in his hands, his fingers clenched so tightly that he was crushing the velvet. Although Belle didn't know him she had no trouble recognizing his nobility. The massive golden chain resting against his green doublet's breast bore the emblem of the garter knights.

  Elizabeth came to her feet with a creak of her farthingale. Surprised, those male courtiers nearest to her pulled frantically at their hats as they bowed. Their queen paid them no heed as her mouth stretched into what should have been a smile.

  “Why here is our noble cousin Norfolk, just returned into our presence,” she called out, a strange note of challenge in her now brittle voice.

  Belle stared in surprise at the duke. He seemed too young and hesitant to be England’s highest ranking peer. At Elizabeth’s call, the nobleman stepped out of the walk far enough to show Belle that his face was pale despite the day's hot sun.

  “Madame,” was all he said as he dropped to one knee and bowed his head.

  “Have you news for us?” This was no question, but a demand.

  As if at a tennis match everyone’s heads turned for the duke’s response.

  “News, Madame?” Norfolk asked, looking up at his monarch. Despite his calm voice, his expression was wretched and his face, now even more ashen.

  “What?” Elizabeth’s gaze bored holes into her duke as her faint brows arched high upon her forehead. “You’ve come from London with no news of a marriage?”

  Belle drew a sharp breath. The queen’s tone was dangerous indeed. The duke’s only response was to blink furiously.

  A happy laugh rang out from the back of the garden. Oblivious to what was going forward between queen and duke, one of Elizabeth’s women danced forward, her steps keeping time to the quiet music rising from the garden’s end. Pretty and dark-haired, she held a single rose in her hand.

  “Oh Madame,” she cried to her royal mistress as she came to a halt, her pink and green skirts swinging around her, “you must look upon this bloom. I vow it’s the most perfect blossom I’ve ever seen.”

  Her jaw tense, the queen lowered her head as if to look upon her lady’s flower. The very instant he was free of the royal gaze, Norfolk came to his feet and backed into the walkway’s shadows. In the space of a breath he’d disappeared into the garden beyond it. If he thought his departure went unnoticed, he was wrong. From where she knelt Belle could see Elizabeth watch him retreat from the corner of her eye.

  Then, as if nothing unusual had occurred, the queen lifted the flower from the noblewoman’s hand, turning it this way and that in the pretense of study. “Indeed Lady Clinton, it is a beauty,” she said at last, handing it back to the woman.

  Then Elizabeth threw her arms wide. “Faugh! We've had enough of gardens and flowers for one day. What say you?” she bellowed. “What say you to an activity more like to stir the blood?”

  Caught unprepared by her challenge, her courtiers only stared at her. A touch of a smile bent the queen’s lips. She whirled and strode at a smart pace down one leg of the walk toward her palace. Just beyond the walkway's far end was a door. If the two guards at either side were any indication, this was access to the royal apartments.

  Elizabeth paused before that door to look back upon her startled courtiers. “What? Do all of you plan to stay the day in the garden, leaving us to ride out by ourself?” she called, then ducked inside and was gone.

  With her words the crowd around Belle exploded into frenzied motion. The queen’s women sprinted after their mistress with squeaks and quiet shrieks. Men scattered into the garden, dodging one another as they raced toward the public gate. In no time the bower was empty.

  Left alone in the new quiet, reality settled heavily upon Belle's shoulders. Easing to the side to sit upon the grass, tears rose, stinging her eyes. She was to marry again, only this time instead of an ancient and uncaring man her new husband would be a monster so scarred he never left his home.

  She surged to her feet, wanting to run as far and fast as she could from this place. Instantly, spots danced before her eyes and her legs wobbled. With a groan she pressed her hands to her head.

  May the Lord save her, but she was going to swoon in earnest this time. Slowly, carefully, she began to make her way by tiny steps toward the garden’s gate. “Oh help,” she muttered as she went, but there was no on in the world left to help her.

  “Not once in the month of my attendance upon Her Grace have I been denied access to her royal presence.”

  Master James Wyatt, steward to Squire Nicholas Hollier, glared at the Privy Garden's guards. Never mind that both he and the soldiers knew his inclusion in Elizabeth's court was a sop, meant to disguise the fact the queen was holding him here against his will. His complaint was loud enough that the noisy conversations of the servants and underlings crowded into this courtyard dropped to a hissy hum as they sought to listen in without seeming to do so.

  Elizabeth's guardsmen only stared back at him, their faces closed and quiet. Jamie snapped his teeth shut on an angry bellow and sent his uncle a pleading glance. Not that he believed any hope of rescue remained.

  Although only five years older than Jamie's own five and thirty, Percy Neveu was dressed more like a grandfather, what with a long black robe belted atop his doublet and breeches and an unadorned black cap perched atop already graying hair. Percy offered Jamie a brief nod, a promise to do what he could, then turned to face the guards.

  Thin nose quivering with manufactured indignation, his brows flattened over eyes as blue as Jamie's. With all the authority of his position as the Lord Chamberlain's undersecretary wrapped around his long, lean body, he took a step toward the gate. “I demand you allow my kinsman entry.”

  The soldiers' pikes didn't waver where they crossed
in the gateway. “We have our orders, Master Neveu,” said the leftward man, “and they are that Master Wyatt shall not enter.”

  “If you have complaints you may take them to Sir William Cecil.” The guard to the right spoke this time.

  Whirling, Jamie stormed a few yards from the gate with Percy at his heels. When they were out of earshot of the guards, he sent his uncle a seething, aching look.

  “Death” he snarled, filling his quiet word with all the rancor his stay at court had made in him, “would be easier to tolerate than standing by while Elizabeth interviews that Protestant bitch she means to marry to my employer. This is blackmail. Either Squire Hollier agrees or the queen strips him of all he’s worked for these past years.” It had taken Nick a decade of careful effort to reestablish the wealth his father and grandsire had squandered.

  “Are you mad? What if someone hears?” Percy demanded at a bare whisper over so honest an expression of emotion, even one quietly done. Catching his nephew by the arm, Percy dragged Jamie a few feet farther from the garden gate. “Should they, you, I and perhaps even your squire might find ourselves in prison for impugning Her Grace, that’s what.”

  Although Jamie’s uncle was named for the Percys of Northumberland, Percy owned none of that family’s bluster and bravado. However, what Percy lacked in courage he made up for in cunning and intelligence.

  Jamie offered his uncle a tense smile. “My apologies. I do know better. Once again I give thanks for having you at my side. I'd not have survived these past weeks at court without you.”

  “True enough,” Percy replied with a nod, granting Jamie the forgiveness he requested. “A courtier must be a reed, willing to bend whichever way the wind blows, friend to all, enemy to none. You, Jamie, are forever ready to defend to the death whatever untenable position you've taken no matter how sensible or profitable retreat might be. Do us both a favor and stay in England's backwaters.”